“Didn’t you like to play Injun that time?”
“It served its purpose,” I said.
She cast at me a swift and troubled glance, bowed her head, and
stepped out. Without looking back she started up the hill, and
presently I rose, without any conscious effort on my part, and began
to follow.
Once she stopped and looked behind her; I only felt it; I dared not
look to see. For the tumult which woke within me at the sight of her
as she moved through that primitive scene frightened me. It seemed to
lift me above, or cast me below, considerations of right or wrong. My
conventional self whispered that I was treading on dangerous ground;
that I must not go up the hill. But I went, even as Brack had gone, in
answer to Betty’s call, but with my eyes held fearfully on the ground.
“Look!” she cried at the cave’s mouth. “The foliage has grown so in a
few days that you scarcely could tell we’d ever had an entrance
there.”
I tore the brush aside to make a way for her and stood aside with eyes
averted.
“Aren’t you going in—Mr. Pitt?” she asked softly.
“No,” I said. “Why should I?”
She sighed and crumpled up a little and entered the cave alone. For
awhile there came no sound from within, but I dared not look to see
what she was doing. Then she began to move around.
“Oh, the poor little branches!” She was half-whispering to herself.
“All withered up and dead, all gone from their pretty little trees.
Poor, poor little leaves. And they looked so bright and hopeful once,
and now they’re gray and dead. And the moss is drying. The soft,
pretty moss! All turned hard and dry. What a pity! What a little,
little pity!”
She was silent for awhile. I peered in and saw her on her knees, her
hands tenderly stroking the withered moss with which we had carpeted
the cave.
“Good-by, little cave,” she whispered. “By-by.”
She did not come out at once. There was a moment during which I turned
my back on the cave, not daring to look in, and the only motion and
sound in the world was that of the young Summer breeze stirring
through the age-old scene.
“Mr. Pitt—, Gardy.” She was only whispering, yet her voice was strong
enough to reach forth and sway me where I stood. I did not reply. The
fight was going against me. Flight would have saved me, yet I would
not fly. But if I trusted myself to speak, I would be lost.
“Aren’t you going to bid our cave good-by?”
I took a step away. I should have taken many; for I felt then that
right and safety prescribed that I step out of the lives of Betty and
George, promptly and forever.
And seconds passed, seconds that seemed minutes, and I hoped that she
would not speak again.
Presently she was standing behind me. I knew it, though I had not
heard or seen her come. Straight ahead I looked, out over the bay,
denying the force that urged me to do otherwise.
“Gardy!”
“Don’t!” I moaned. “Go back—get in the canoe; go back to
George—alone—quick!”
“Gardy!”
She placed her fingers on my arm. And I turned around and faced her,
because I could not do otherwise. Then suddenly all the winds in the
world seemed to be pressing upon me, drawing, coaxing, forcing me
toward her. One agonized cry my conscience sent up in protest at the
wrong I did. Then I swept her to me; I held her against my breast; I
kissed her; then tore myself away.
Slowly, painfully I lifted my gaze from the ground to take my
punishment from her eyes. And then my heart leaped and stopped within
me. For Betty, with her hands clasped rapturously before her, was
looking up at me with the soft flame of grateful happiness in her
expression.
“Oh, Gardy, Gardy!” She swayed her shoulders a little. “Then you do
care for me; you do—you do—don’t you?”
“Betty!”
“Oh, oh!” She teetered up and down on her toes, unable to contain
herself. “He cares for her; he isn’t going to leave little Betty all
lonesome and unhappy!”